


one death for two

by kurlykmurlyk



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Violence, Homophobic Language, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Sindom, Tags Are Hard, andres being a dramatic ass, as usual, martin being sad and gay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:54:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25414267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kurlykmurlyk/pseuds/kurlykmurlyk
Summary: a deafening silence stands before his eyes as noisy ripples, and he can feel the cold ringing of his soul with the tips of his thin fingers, hear other people's thoughts, fly on his own inflated power like a true god, only this is neither a gift from heaven, nor the curse of hell. Because he is not an immortal deity and not a rejected archangel, but only a small dung fly that believed that he could become a gorgeous butterfly.But to be reborn as a king, you must first die as a true plebeian.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa & Palermo | Martín Berrote, Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 7
Kudos: 14





	1. black

**Author's Note:**

> today i present you some berlermo angst.  
> tomorrow? who knows....
> 
> this is my first fic in english, literally just a translation from my russian one, so yeah, there may be some mistakes. i apologize for that :")  
> thanks for reading!)  
> enjoy)

The metal is very cold.

Goosebumps run like thousands of tiny ants that barely touch his thin, pale skin with their paws. They start from somewhere in the neck, slowly spread along the sharp collarbones, wrapping themselves around the chest like a velvet ribbon - _have you forgotten to breathe? you need to breathe,_ \- then the count vertebrae... one down, two down, three down. As if out of spite, they stop at the groin a little bit longer, forcing him to cringe, but then they get lost without a trace somewhere between the toes, tickling the heels at last and finally dissolving into the parquet cracks. He sits barefoot.

Goosebumps run like rats from a ship, scattering in horor. Because the metal is really very cold. His hands are shaking violently, _cold metal_ beats softly against his teeth, and he laughs to tears and a heavy ball in his stomach; howls because he cannot breathe. Because he is disgusted to look at himself, at how measuredly the ribs rise here and there, how a cheap T-shirt trembles under a quiet heart rate, very, very slightly. He is disgusted to look at the clock on the wall, which lazily points with thin arrows to 4:36. The second hand flutters the same way, very, very slightly. Ticking. It’s fucking _ticking_.

He looks at the wrist. Maybe he should scratch it to hell? Maybe then the clock will stop ticking?

But he has a revolver in his mouth, a fully loaded revolver; The bitter taste of gunpowder on the tongue gives an incomprehensible sensation - he either wants to come from pleasure right in his pants, or to cry, - although it has never been shot from. This flatters him. He smiles. He pushes it deeper, deep enough to puke; somewhere at the root of the tongue blooms a sour pink bud of swallowed sperm, dust, and the taste of sprat oil.

 _You know that feeling, right? When you suck off some cute guy around the corner of a noisy bar, when he pulls your hair to take you deeper, like a faithful dog; when he gets your face dirty with himself and throws a few crumpled «thank you» bills. Do you know this feeling? Sure. You have this schedule for every Wednesday and Friday._ Gross. In the box next to him lies the same second gun, but empty. He would give it to Andres, he would die next to him, watching a fucking sunset. He would have died next to him, together with him, instead of him, he would have died by his order, without hesitation he would have put a bullet to his temple, would have fired a bullet to someone else, looking straight into his black eyes; Yes, he was ready to bury himself, choke on sand and muddy earth, just tell him to, but Andres chose a slightly different option.

Break him down first,

then trample

and kill with his own death.

Bravo. The audience cheers. Five Stars. And what a drama, God! The critics are delighted, the acting is one hundred percent. Emotions are conveyed simply gorgeous, you penetrate the character with all the fibers of the soul, and you just want to burst into the nearest shoulder and wipe the snot with a paper handkerchief. The scenery, atmosphere, everything is on top. The tears seem almost real. Andres once said that they shimmer in the light like a pair of large, expensive diamonds. Martin only laughed then, but _now he feels like a goddamn rich man._

And people from the audience go out to the intermission, scatter in the corners. Someone - to light a cigarette, someone - to take a quick piss, while a huge burgundy curtain crawls sluggishly across the floor, collecting dust, until it completely closes the stage from prying eyes, which strive to look behind the scenes. Although, let them watch as much as they want, there is still nothing interesting there: only a broken TV, broken bottles under the table, and the same broken man with a _gun in his mouth_.

… First bell, second bell, third bell. The clock strikes five in the morning, the clock is ticking again.

Got enough. Martin barks and shoots sharply at the dial, they fall to the floor with a squeal, and the glass scatters in large drops all over the room. He thinks that for a long time he will find small fragments throughout the apartment. He thinks that if he killed himself at last, the fragments will also remain. But he will stop ticking. Only now there are no clocks, no curious audience, and a hand with a revolver lies lifelessly on the table. Fingers twitch slightly. Ears are ringing. The metal is very cold. And he looks at him through the cold prism of tears and _laughs like a madman_ , again forgetting to breathe.

Because when Sergio sees these two for the first time, almost a decade ago, he freezes with fear, like a cornered animal: because of the thick glasses that try to roll off the bridge of the nose, the frightened eyes seem even larger, almost to the half of his face ... Such animal fright splashes in them that he digs his fingers into the doorframe and looks fascinated, because he simply cannot look away. Nobody can. Because these two are dancing as if it is the last day of their lives. They dance to Ella Fitzgerald's «Caravan»,w makes a loud noise from the gramophone needle, as if they want to tear each other's throats and nothing else. They dance, glaring at each other, tapping their feet on the floor, flying across the room as if the laws of physics were not written for them, and _laugh like true madmen, because they themselves have always been so._

No one dares to touch each other yet, as if afraid of getting burned; Sergio watches with ecstasy as Martin quickly whirls around his brother, softly rustling his boots like a hungry predator: nimble fingers barely touch the silk suit, barely hold the waist, barely fall on sharp shoulders, but do not dare to interrupt that thin invisible line that teases Andres so much.

One, two.

One, two.

Afterall, Martin is scary at this moment. He looks like a cunning fox that tensely wags his fiery tail; he dreams of snuggling his face against the gentle neck opposite and drinking in his cold blood, sparing neither his clean fur nor the handmade carpet under his feet. But only silently looks, while a fire rages in the eyes and on a wide smile. And Andres swallows, _grinning the same way._

One, two.

One,two.

But Andres is too proud, he is too pleased, he likes to break the rules too much, he smiles and, laughing loudly, pulls Martin by the hand, sharply throwing him away from himself. The Argentine seems to be dizzy. The Argentine thinks that a burn will remain on the wrist. Melts into a smile that spreads over his face like pure gold, and is ready to _burn himself alive_.

One, two.

One, two.

After all, Andres is scary at this moment. Dark, almost black eyes, the color of sticky mascara, watch without stopping. Sharp cheekbones, a sharp grip, sharp fangs that do not hesitate to peek out from under a dangerous grin, a sharp look, sharp shoulders of a jacket, sharp arrows on trousers, sharp toes of patent leather shoes ... But only Martin knows how _soft_ the raging flesh is, and he almost snarls as Andres pulls the guy back on, unceremoniously grabbing him by the collar of his leather jacket. Because this is a dance, a ritual, a game, this is a real theatrical performance only for them, this is _one death for two_ , there is no need to rush anywhere, right?

And Andres is scary at this moment, because he almost steps on his feet, sticks his nose on his hot red cheek. He is scary, because a soft palm is already on Martin's neck, on his chin, he slightly scratches the delicate skin with his claws, barely restraining himself from alluring desire to cut his throat from ear to ear, because he regrets the handmade carpet under his feet and does not want to get his paws dirty in viscous blood. Because he's a fox too. He leads the dance slowly to disgust, deliberately stretching the moment, _licking his lips_ , wrapping his hand around Martins belt and pulling him even closer as if there is nothing more to breathe, as if he wants to break him and build a colorful stained glass window from the fragments, as if they would die tomorrow without seeing the sunset, as if they might not have time to live. Because the palm crawls over the hair, easily strokes the back of the head, ripping off the scalp to hell, _and they laugh like real madmen, and their laughter is truly disgusting, and Sergio still cannot stop looking like a little boy who caught his parents at night. But this? Much more intimate. It's personal_.

\- Did you forget to breathe? - says Andres in a wheezing whisper and Martin exhales only now, burning his throat with air, when the record does not spin anymore and Ella no longer entertains them with her low timbre. When he thinks his ribs are broken. Because they danced for an infinitely long time, because they do not need any words or a script, because they are actors for each other and no audience can replace his approving glance, because _peeping is not very good, Sergio._


	2. red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> because in cowardice there is strength, in tears - power, but he searched for the truth in this life for so long that he died in a lie. but now, when there is a gun in his hand, when his ears are no longer ringigng, he does not dare to raise it again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dedicated to my precious angsty soulmate :))
> 
> twitter: @dying_astoreth

A deafening silence stands before his eyes as noisy ripples, and he can feel the cold ringing of his soul with the tips of his thin fingers, hear other people's thoughts, fly on his own inflated power like a true god, only this is neither a gift from heaven, nor the curse of hell. Because he is not an immortal deity and not a rejected archangel, but only a small dung fly that believed that he could become a gorgeous butterfly.

But to be reborn as a king, you must first die as a true plebeian.

But he never believed in fate and its fake fairytales, with which mamas scare children at night, because he saw, he did something that would even make them shake like an autumn leaf in the wind.

Because true cruelty never grows among mysterious castles full of ghosts and pale vampires, coffins and skulls.

It does not grow to the quiet creak of the parquet, the mysterious howl to the moon, Bach and wine. Cruelty is not a sweet bloody rose, not a lush purple bud that proudly spreads its petals for all to see. Cruelty will never be burned out on dark film for photographs in its true manifestation, cruelty cannot be photographed - it can only be left in the form of bruises and scratches, deep scars, in the form of a luxurious flower garden, but they will also die sometime anyway; Yes, the anger in the eyes and the eyebrows brought together can still be copied. People love to copy.

But try to parody pain, sparkle in eyes and disfigured laughter, torn joy, hot tears, empty fun, knuckles and a smile. A smile that breaks mirrors.

Try to parody the boiling ball of tears under the Adam's apple when there is no voice and when the lungs are torn. When a trembling palm rests on the handle of the bathroom door, and screams come to you through a thin crack, the same laugh, an unpleasant mixture of insults and sarcasm. When your mother swears that she will kill him without even flinching, she will go to prison, but she will rid the world of such a geek as your mediocre-father. And you smile, you pray to all the gods you know that they really kill each other and stain the tiles in the kitchen in their own gray blood so you could smear your bare feet, fingers and soul in it. Wear a crown and wreath of the most beautifulr roses.

You look disgusting in the dirty mirror, you look like a drug addict during withdrawal, with dark green veins through which only burgundy slimy hatred flows; you look like a junkie who has a bag of weed waved in front of his nose, that's how you look.

You look gorgeous in the mirror, you look like Dorian Gray himself, with bright golden fluffy locks that are scattered all over your forehead like light feathers; you look perfect, people fall in love with you, they bite into you with their souls, they present you with their body, their mind, on their knees; you look like a message from god from heaven, _and you look truly disgusting, because you are empty and broken, because you are scary, nauseous, because someday you will also die and your only neighbors will be cold grave worms, because vice - is what attracts people, and they sing serenades under the window, because they want to taste someone else's rot, because they have enough of their own, because-_

But here you are, black pupils cover almost your entire iris and the hum dies down.

You're angry.

You are angry because cruelty is a magnolia, intoxicating and proud as hell, and you have received nothing but a thin thread of sweet scent.

For now.

But all of us will still meet below, because no one can resist true sin, right?

*******

He tried to paint with watercolors.

He painted watercolor seas on thin notebook paper in elementary school, the same one with a blue strip. In the margins too.

He painted watercolor oceans on the same paper, but in a checkered one. He didn't paint the sky. The sheets turned gray.

He didn't like it.

He painted watercolor mountains in a children's album with a dog on the cover. He was adding too much water. He didn't paint the sky. The sheets turned gray.

_(You are just scared to try)_

He didn't like it.

He painted watercolor fields on better paper. He didn't like green. He didn't paint the sky. The sheets turned gray.

He didn't like it.

He painted watercolor houses, watercolor gardens, he did not paint the sky. The sheets always turned gray. He didn't like it at all.

He tried to paint with gouache.

He painted seas from gouache, always very thick, he painted seas and oceans from gouache with heavy strokes, but they cracked, crumbling onto the cold floor.

He painted mountains from gouache, always very thick, he painted mountains from gouache with heavy strokes, but they cracked, crumbling to the cold floor.

He painted gouache fields, always very thick, with heavy strokes he painted gouache fields, but they cracked, but he didn't care anymore. He still didn't like green. He didn't paint the sky.

He didn't like it.

_(Because you are afraid?)_

He tried to paint with acrylics.

He painted seas from acrylic, which dried out too quickly. The oceans were black.

He painted mountains out of acrylic, which dried out too quickly.

He painted fields from acrylic.

He didn't paint the sky.

He didn't like it.

He gave up drawing, because now sticky blood is drying on his hands, he chose wet asphalt with a canvas, paint - someone's empty head, and with his palm he slowly twists his first brush in his life - a sharp piece of some random cobblestone, which waslying next to his boot, and the blood now slowly flows from it, falling down in curved blots.

Because now Martin is standing in a deserted alley, a still warm body is lying under his feet, but he still does not feel like an artist.

Everything is supposed to be different. No. (No?) Absolutely.

That vile guy's head cracked too loud,

_(he didn't want that at all; it was an accident; it's not me)_

_(You are a coward, eh?)_

it all happened too fast, it cracked like an empty glass,

(crackle, _one two three four_ , a lot’s of pieces,

bones crack _one two three four_ )

and the fragments flew in different directions, and Martin sighs in frustration, swings, hits on the head again and again, hits, hits, _(one two three four)_

until the skull completely goes inside, until the stone falls out of his hands and until his whole face is painted with splashes, until the rain begins to drip and the hum of the drops blocks his cry and the loud cracking of bones and soul, until his canvas breaks, and his fingers are now disfigured by murder.

Everything is supposed ti be different. No. (No?)

He doesn't like the taste of anger at all. Anger glistens in a glass with amber cognac, almost red in the light, it always smells disgusting, but he still swallows, lets the alcohol rip off his throat to hell, lets the alcohol break him and flush him down the toilet, only he is now ready to put his head in hideous water , _because the feeling of self-pity is addictive, making a victim out of yourself is always beneficial, fear is useful, buy a new drug, two capsules a day - and you will feel alive again, but it's better not to read the fine print; call on the phone- (one two three four)_

(The number you have dialed could not be reached, so you will be directed to a voice messaging center…)

He doesn't like the taste of anger at all, because it splashes on his tongue like a bright sun, like a light dawn, rolls in his mouth softly-softly, it is slightly-slightly sour, but still sweet-sweet, like a cold strawberry ice cream.

_(but mom, I'm not a kid anymore)_

The waffle cone is slightly soaked around the edges, but still crunches pleasantly, slightly creaks on the teeth and treacherously lets a warm pink drop roll onto his fingers, further down the palm, soiling his hands in sticky cream. Anger is strawberry ice cream, because he gently touches the waffle with his lips, viscidly slowly licks the ice cream with his tongue, and catches greedy, hungry looks. Anger is strawberry ice cream, because it slips out of the grip and falls on the asphalt in a pink puddle _(one two three four_ ), because he wants more, he falls after it, he buys more and more until the stall is empty, until the won’t have money at all, but not a single sweetness will cover the offense from that fallen waffle, and he is childishly angry, here, it’s what anger is. Because no matter how many times something good happens, one small mistake will make you forget about everything that happened earlier, _this is true magic_. As simple as an ordinary ice cream, but people still fall for this hook, and he, too, falls, breaking on the rough asphalt, spreading in wet drops, but the cream from the hands does not wipe off and now takes on a red color.

His tears mix with the downpour, water flows down his hair, envelops his head softly, softly, like someone's gentle hands, easily rolls down his eyelashes and he does not understand why he is crying, what for; this is still not enough to wash off the burgundy dirt from hands. Maybe because strawberry blood dries on his lips, maybe because he likes it, he doesn't know.

Drops rustle around his face like a swarm of dung flies, biting his skin, rustling their wings on his cheeks, tickling his nose with their paws, and he just sits in front of a corpse and does not regret it at all.

He sits next to him on his knees, the leather jacket slipped off the shoulders long ago, when this asshole was drooling on his ass, when he grabbed his hips, when he pressed Martins forehead into a brick wall with all his might, when-

_(knock)_

_(drip)_

_(crunch)_

-when nothing matters anymore, because it should be like that. _Cruelty killed cruelty_ and everyone will laugh at their funeral.

Martin wipes the water off his face with his palm and looks first at his drawing _(one two three four)_ , then somewhere in the distance, where there is a quiet noise of the highway, and freezes, and smiles like a madman.

\- «Are you my guardian angel, eh?»

Because he finally has his first mysterious viewer.

_Berlin, December 2004._


End file.
